


Not what they teach in Russia

by dappercat



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:04:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappercat/pseuds/dappercat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You want to know how I fuck?" he growled into Solo's ear, "Fine. I'll show you how I fuck."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not what they teach in Russia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacegoth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegoth/gifts).



"So, Peril," said Solo conversationally, "What do they teach you in Russia?"

"What?" said Illya, looking up from the chessboard.

"You know," Solo continued, waving vaguely with one hand in a gesture that Illya assumed was meant to convey absolutely nothing, "Seduction."

" _What_?" They'd been sitting in silence for the last half an hour, Illya practising his chess moves with a frown so attentive that Gaby had thrown up her hands in dismay and declared she was going to Napoleon's room, where fun wasn't an endangered species. At some point after that, Solo had shown up at (and through) Illya's door (considerately left open by Gaby upon departure), declaring he wanted to observe 'the Russian in his natural habitat', and had sunk down in the chair opposite and said not a word since.

Now he'd opened his smug mouth and the first thing to come out of it was, like the rest of him, completely out of the blue and very irritating.

After eyeing the expression on Solo's face (a perfectly innocent smile), Illya concluded that ignoring him would not be effective in deterring him from pursuing this entirely pointless line of conversation. He set down the chess piece he'd been about to play, and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms with a quirk of an eyebrow. "Sorry, why are we talking about this?"

"Call it professional curiosity. Like professional courtesy, only more interesting. Know your enemy and all that."

"We're working together," Illya pointed out, dryly.

"Yes, but we're not _usually_ , are we?" Solo countered, as if speaking to a child. Illya felt the muscles in his jaw clench against his will, gritting his teeth behind his lips. "Anyway," Solo continued, "What do they teach you in Russia?"

"About seduction," Illya echoed flatly.

"About seduction," he confirmed.

"Well, maybe they teach you different in America, but we Russians prefer to use _real_ skills to achieve the goal," Illya replied, feeling a little vindicated when Solo looked mildly (though probably not genuinely) offended.

"Come on, now, Peril, you're saying you've never had a moment when you thought the mission'd go a lot smoother with a few persuasive talents?" Solo tutted, "I don't believe that for an instant. There's a great deal of information you can get out of a good seductive technique, you know."

Flashes of Solo bedding various women flitted through Illya's head, much to his annoyance. "Thank you, Cowboy, but I don't need to hear about you and the women you take to bed," he said pointedly, uncrossing his arms and hunching over the board and its unfinished game.

"Did I say women?" Solo said lightly, bringing Illya's eyes snapping up to focus on his face again. For a very brief moment, Illya found himself speechless. Solo raised his palms, as if to appease. "I mean _people_. It pays to be flexible."

"They teach you this in America?" Illya said, not without a little disbelief.

"Well, a little, but most of it I picked up along the way." Solo eyed him speculatively. "Don't tell me you're afraid."

Illya bristled. "I'm not afraid of talking about sex," he said, to which Solo smiled widely.

"So, which is it? Do you seduce, or don't you?"

"I know how to," Illya replied shortly, drawing himself up to his full seated height, tilting his chin just a notch upwards in stubborn pride.

"Well, that's good," Solo allowed, looking amused, "So tell me a bit about it."

Illya looked him straight in the eye. "I know how to fuck," he said, then allowed himself a moment of satisfaction when Solo's face showed rare surprise. "Is that good enough for you?" he added, when Solo took an instant too long to respond.

"Women," Solo said.

"Same practice for both," Illya replied, "Just different holes."

Solo had to take a second there, struggling to gain his composure behind a carefully placed clearing of the throat. "Well," he said eventually, "You're certainly more well-versed than I expected for a poorly-dressed Soviet." Smiling ever-so-slightly at the tense anger in Illya's face, he leaned over and rescued an empty glass on the table, pouring himself some convenient gin from a bottle Gaby had no doubt left there for him.

After a long sip, he noted that his reluctant partner had still not moved or spoken, the look in his eyes a flinty steel trained on Solo's face. "What?" he said innocently, "You looked like a virgin to me."

What happened next took both of them by surprise. Illya surged across the table, chesspieces scattering wildly in escape as he lunged for Solo and wrapped a hand around his throat. He tightened his grip, feeling pure primal satisfaction flood through him at the look on Solo's face, a wheezing surprise as he scrabbled to release Illya's hand from his neck.

Illya dodged a knee to the crotch, slamming Solo back against the chair in warning, with just enough force to shake him but not enough that the vertebrae in his neck would shatter like fine porcelain.

"You want to know how I fuck?" he growled into Solo's ear, "Fine. I'll show you how I fuck."

He released his grip on Solo, who had since regained his composure and was now alert enough to grab Illya's arms in reflex when they made to pull him out of his chair by the lapels of his dressing gown. That was rather short-lived as Illya's greater strength won out and Solo found himself tossed to the floor, the wind knocked out of him by its traitorously solid carpet.

Illya settled on top of him, pinning Solo to the ground with a firm - but this time controlled - hand against the back of his neck. He felt smug, victorious at gaining the upper hand over the normally unflappable Napoleon. It felt good. Good to finally bring him down from his high horse and have him underneath him, have him pinned and unable to move without Illya's say-so. As he thought it, he heard a throaty noise escape him, and Solo uttered a single groan in response.

"Usually I'd ask you to buy me a drink first," Solo rasped, but the bravado was gone from his voice. He lay there panting, cheek pressed to the floor and just a glimpse of Illya's strong torso out of the corner of his eye. As Illya shifted on top of him he let out another shattered noise, a low note of desperation.

Illya ignored his smart comment, began pushing the hem of Solo's dressing gown up along his body. The brush of his fingers along Solo's skin sent a tingle along his arm, and he noticed goosebumps break out on Solo's legs in kind. "Don't worry, little Cowboy," he said softly, lowly, "I'll give you what you want very soon." And there was no ignoring now the strain he felt in his trousers as he revealed inch after inch of Solo's bare skin. Judging by the shallow, rapid breaths Solo was taking, Illya wasn't alone, either.

Once he had pushed the dressing gown halfway up Solo's back, he tucked his fingers into the luxurious silken boxers covering Solo's behind. Taking these off slowly was a point of pleasure, watching and feeling Solo tense, until they were crumpled around his knees and there was nothing to stop Illya dragging a light finger over both cheeks. Solo shivered, and Illya gave him a second to recover as he raised his hand to his mouth, slipping his fingers in and against his tongue to lave them up with his spit, pulling them out again with a wet pop.

Solo twisted an inch, craning to see over his shoulder, and Illya shoved him back in place with a warning tightening of his grip around Solo's throat. Without another second to wait he touched his spit-slick fingers to Solo's entrance, traced its borders and listened to Solo moan.

"No easy, gentle treatment for you, Cowboy," he murmured, easing a thick finger into Solo's willing body, quick and without mercy. Solo was gasping as Illya looked on, a smile touching his lips.

"You don't deserve it," he added, pushing another finger in alongside the first, making Solo groan low and breathy and needing. "Besides, you can take it, can't you, Solo?" He pulled his fingers back, slid them back in for the satisfaction of Solo's stuttered moan. "American agents, they are sturdy. _That_ ," he said, punctuating his word with another thrust of his hand, "is what they taught me in Russia."

Solo was gasping Illya's name now, alternating between "Peril" and "Illya" in quick succession. Illya listened to the pleading note in the two words and twisted his fingers inside Solo's body, making him arch underneath him. "One more," he told Solo pleasantly, and added a third finger. He admired the way Solo stretched around the intrusion, opening up for him, and the way Solo trembled. "You will understand why in a minute," he added.

When he'd decided Solo had had enough, Illya spitting onto his fingers and pushing the wetness in and making him as slick as he could with what he had, and Solo, getting increasingly more desperate with his voice, he stopped. He pulled his hand away and heard Solo moan, " _Please_." Illya unbuckled his belt, smiling.

"Of course," he replied gallantly, then hissed at the cold air on his cock as he freed it from where it was straining. He gave it a few strokes with a firm hand, the pleasure washing over him with more strength than he'd anticipated. It had been a long time since he'd touched himself like this.

Illya did not generally care to notice, but he was built across all proportions in the same way: large, thick. His cock leaked heavy in his hand, flushed and long. As he stroked himself he was pleased that Solo could not see him; it would pay to hear the overwhelmed surprise in his voice when Illya pushed into him.

"Illya, _please_ ," Solo was begging him, struggling to get up and take matters into his own hands. Illya let him rise a millimetre, then shoved him back down.

"Stay still, Cowboy," he said with thin warning, then let go of Solo's throat. To his credit, Solo did not move. With both hands he pulled Solo's rear end into the air, arranging him roughly so that his face remained pressed to the ground but his knees held him up, exposed to the night's air. Illya ran a careful hand over the backs of Solo's thighs, and up to trace his buttocks, feeling the tremble in Solo's muscles follow his touch.

Illya spat in his palm, ran it along the length of his cock, slicked himself up as much as he could. From here he had the perfect view of Solo's waiting body, still stretched from the earlier attentions of his fingers. He smiled to himself. He'd never seen Solo in a more satisfying position.

When he thrust in, roughly, hand on Solo's hip tugging him back towards him, Solo let out a moaning sob with not a little pain in it. Illya stilled, panting, allowing Solo a moment to adjust to the thick length inside him. He held on tightly to Solo's hips so he could not move away. Then he began to fuck him.

"This?" he said, pulling back and slamming back into him such that Solo cried out louder than ever, "This they did not teach me in Russia." He started up a strong rhythm, out and in and out, hard and fast and merciless, his balls slapping against the back of Solo's thighs. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of Solo's cock bobbing between his legs, dribbling pre-come unattended onto the expensive carpet floor. There were no smart words coming out of Solo's mouth now, only sharp cries and short staccato moans, each thrust wrangling a new noise out of him.

He could feel himself losing control again, the rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts coming faster and faster, fucking into Solo's hot wet heat with brute force. Solo whimpered and came, splattering his excitement all over the paisley patterning, even as Illya continued without pause. It took a few more moments, and then- yes, yes, he felt the pleasure surge into a tight knot and erupt across him, swallowing him up as he shouted and shuddered and came powerfully into Solo's body.

When he regained himself he noticed Solo had slumped to the floor, exhausted, and Illya's cock was hanging satisfied and peaceful. He tucked himself away, eyes tracking the line of Solo's body and lingering on the come dripping out of him. Then, with a resigned sigh, he got up, bending down to lift the limp American agent into his arms.

He lay Solo gently on a nearby couch, brushing away the sweat-wet hair from his forehead, watching the fatigue in Solo's face for just a moment.

"Solo," he said, but he said it quietly, with a little note of worry in his voice, "Did I hurt you?"

There was a long second when Solo did not answer, and Illya's brow furrowed in concern, but then he stirred, cracking one eye open to look at Illya with sleepy reproachfulness.

"Didn't you hear yourself?" he murmured, "Americans are sturdy. Now, come here and give me some damn physical affection - American style, none of that Russian nonsense. Hugs, and cuddles. Oh, and some gin if there's any left."


End file.
